


we are young as the night

by Fernstrike



Series: The Age of Telcontar [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arwen gets to take a break from being queen and just enjoy being with her loved ones, Celebrations, Cultural Differences, Cultural exchange, Dancing, F/M, Memories, Mostly Fluff, Slightly bittersweet, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22605721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fernstrike/pseuds/Fernstrike
Summary: It's Eldarion's coming of age. Arwen couldn't be prouder of the life she's built in Minas Tirith.(The less she thinks past the present, the easier it is.)
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: The Age of Telcontar [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/696645
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	we are young as the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calenlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calenlily/gifts).



Perhaps the strangest thing Arwen has done as queen so far - and yet an achievement that she is not about to downplay - is converting the citadel into an exquisite amalgam of the decor, gastronomy, and music of both Eldar and Edain for Eldarion’s coming-of-age. The Court of the Fountain is bedecked with fine wooden constructions strung with lights brought by craftsmen from home, beneath which their myriad guests were standing, or sitting upon finely woven pillows from her favourite seamstresses in the fourth circle of the city. Crowns of flowers, woven by the Silvan elves of Ithilien, adorn golden, auburn, and inky black heads. Pastries of cinnamon and nutmeg, sweetmeats of almonds and rose syrup from coastal cities, strong mead from Rohan all weigh down the tables scattered across the grounds. It’s not something she had had the same kind of concern for before - the organisation of festivities had most often fallen to Erestor, while herself and her brothers made mischief. Revelry is known to them in Imladris, whatever outsiders might think - and having the agency and opportunity to unite the sort she was familiar with, with the world her son had grown up in, was the kind of challenge that only gave greater and greater satisfaction in its achievement.

“With all the rain these past weeks, I am astounded we have a clear sky tonight,” says Éowyn to her right, their arms linked and their steps meandering with the heady joy of the evening.

"It comes down to clever planning," she says, affecting an air of mystery, but her friend sees right through it and laughs, the lines on her face creasing in mirth. The rain had broken a wretched period of dry weeks, but after such a deluge, a little respite was welcome. The truth is, Arwen can only be grateful that the myriad twinkling stars themselves seemed so keen to look down upon their revelry of her family and her people that they banished the clouds and gleamed down at them now like so many bright, curious eyes. 

_Her people._ They are now, by bond, not by birth, which is another challenge and gift in and of itself. 

She looks to the dancing here, spilled out from Merethrond where most of the feasting is taking place. She watches her son at one end of the line of dancers, her husband at the other, the group of them twirling and darting in and out from under one another's arms, laughing in time with the light drums and twirling flutes classic of Ithilien’s music. She smiles broadly. _What strange moments these are,_ she thinks, _entire fleeting and yet somehow so eternal._ If there is one thing that loving Aragorn has taught her, it is that not all things must live forever to be something beyond time.

The thought gives her pause, and she locks it away behind the doors in her mind immediately. Tonight is a night for revelry, celebrating the son she sometimes cannot believe she was blessed to bring into the world, now in his indomitable youth and vigour. No, tonight, she will permit no melancholia. She breathes in the warm, just subtly sweet scent of the White Tree, it’s blossoms particularly fragrant at night. She can feel the thrill of the flowers after the rain, reaching out to the sky and so glad to be alive and thriving. She revels in it.

On her left, eyes wide and smile wider, Elanor Gardner walks with them, the top of her head barely past Arwen's hip. Nearly a year she has been in Minas Tirith, and yet her fascination with the ordinary never seems to cease, where others would long since have become only entranced by the sublime. She’s grown since last Arwen had seen her - by count of years, she is a little older than Eldarion, though Arwen is aware that Hobbits have a different reckoning for their people’s adulthood - and in that time has become ever more inquisitive. The hobbit’s hands unconsciously flutter over the fine girdle Arwen had stitched and gifted to her six years back, when she had been named her maid of honour.

“It’s a mighty crowd come for the party,” she says. “I knew Prince Eldarion was well-liked, that’s certain, but it looks like half the city has turned out!”

“It is a well-deserved break for all of us,” Arwen says, and it is true. The drought had made all of them worried, and tired, and bleak with the fear of shortages. Everyone had worked as hard as possible to keep the kingdom healthy, Aragorn and herself naturally at the head of the efforts, but she could not have been more proud of the way Eldarion had come forward to help manage the settlements in Pelennor. That, if his twentieth begetting day had not been enough, was impetus for a merry gathering that would also break the spell of the past struggle and usher in happier days. Their friends were around them, the grass was still damp and shining, and all was beautiful and bright. 

She turns away from her thoughts as Elanor reaches out to a low table to carefully pick up a sweet finer than spidersilk, catching the gentle light in its amber lines. "Spun sugar! I didn't know you made this here, too."

“The taste is different than what I tried when last I visited your people.”

“It’s like fireweed honey,” Elanor remarks as a bit dissolves on her tongue.

“The sugar comes from a very flavourful cane they grow in Near Harad,” Arwen says, feeling another swell of pride. It had been a journey to establish trade with Haradwaith after the war, and she never let a single courtier forget that it was she, the first to break any ground with the ambassador’s wife, that opened the door when negotiations stalled in the King’s council chamber.

"I'll let you in on a secret," she continues. "After a long day fulfilling his office, a bite from one of these can smooth the frown from my husband's face in half a second."

“I shall have to gather a few of those before the night is done then, I think,” says Éowyn, disentangling herself and nodding towards a cluster of dignitaries, among them Faramir in robes of fine silver. “He’s clever enough to extricate himself from endless conversation, but also far too polite to do it.”

She nods to Arwen and Elanor as she moves away. Arwen watches her walk across the path, still strong, always strong - yet there is a certain thinness to her now, a way she moves that speaks of the passage of years. In Imladris, Arwen had grown used to the rhythm of life of the Dúnedain; she had wrestled with the truth of it for years and years now. This pace was even more rapid. _Her time will be upon her sooner than later,_ she thinks, and must once again force the thought from her mind. The night is still young. They are celebrating youth, and rejuvenation. She will not dwell on what has not come to pass until it is upon them.

At that moment, there is a series of flutters in her belly, nearly little prods, and she comes up short, giving a weary smile as she places a placating hand over her lower abdomen. She mustn’t have worn the surprise well, for soon Elanor is standing before her, brows raised. “Do you need to sit down, my lady?”

“Just for a moment,” she says. “The little one is curious about the noise I think. And when the dance is done, perhaps you might fetch my husband to me.”

“Look where they are in the reel!” she says, nodding to the two lines of dancers clapping in time, as the two of them make their way to Merethrond. “He’s dancing with that lovely lady Amathel that Prince Eldarion - well, if it is not improper to say it, my lady - that the Prince has been especially fond of this past year. I wonder what King Elessar thinks? For my part, she was awfully kind to me when I met her.”

“It’s for that that I’d like you to fetch him, though let him enjoy the fun of the dance first,” Arwen replies, warmth blossoming in her as she watches Aragorn dance the steps of the reel as if she hadn’t had to teach them to him yesterday. She had made a point of learning the dances of her adopted people long ago, and with Ithilien thriving once more, and the musicians coming, had made it an imperative that Aragorn would follow suit.

“It cannot be all trade and taxes all the time,” she had said rather pointedly, and she had caved, for his late nights debating policy had been her late nights counselling him more often than not.

There had been many stubbed toes, and no small amount of swearing - on his part, mostly - and they had ended up laughing in each others’ arms until they were red in the face. 

_The fun of the dance,_ she thinks, as Elanor helps her into her seat at the main feasting table. Arwen is not yet so heavy with child that dancing is strenuous. If they play a slower tune later tonight, she’ll join her husband in the circle. If this night has shown her anything, it is that her efforts to unite all the myriad and strange people in her life have paid off, that all the wonderful worlds she gets to be a part of from having chosen to be a part of them are worth the choice, and that her love for her family, through moments beautiful and terrible, shall always triumph over any grief. It is a grateful return unto itself to see the outcome - but she thinks she can at least take it upon herself to be owed a dance.

She dismisses Elanor to join the party again, watching as she goes to see her own father first, sitting at jovially with a flagon of ale in hand, and then gets lost in the crowd. It does not take long before Arwen espies Aragorn weaving his way through the crowd, shaking hands, trading brief words, and sharing smiles as if he has done nothing else his whole life. He, too, has changed.

He stumbles ever so slightly climbing the dais, righting himself with a sniff as he comes to sit beside her. She conceals her amusement and affects the most cloyingly loving tone she can muster. “Next time Legolas asks if you would like another glass of the Dorwinion vintage he had shipped here, you had best say no.”

“And who was the one organising the food and drink for the party?” he asks wryly, settling himself into his chair.

She raises her hands innocently. “He volunteered. Who am I to refuse generosity of spirit?”

“Nor indeed of spirits,” he laughs, shaking his head. “No, beloved, I am afraid the reasoning is far more prosaic and comes down to the dance. The next time I do the Ithilien Reel with the one who would be our son’s betrothed, I shall have to wear my ceremonial greaves.”

“Well, I do rather know how you feel,” she remarks with a fond smile. “But take care that not all the world was taught to dance by fleet-footed courtiers in Imladris, you know.” 

“No, indeed.”

That wretched cloud of the future, looming just out of her sight, shadows her thoughts once again. “What do you think of her? Of Amathel? At this moment?”

He considers for a moment, and she sees the caution and the warmth of both a king and a father in his storm-grey eyes. “I think she reminds me of someone I know.”

Arwen only blinks, indicating for him to go on. He leans back in his chair and raises both hands in a gesture of clarity - the familiar pose he always assumes when he is explaining something, or sorting out something as much for his mind as for the council or Eldarion or even her.

“I think she came to understand the world and the role she would be walking into,” he says, considering each word, “and that is why she has spent that past year learning it inside and out and becoming part of it. I think that while we never put strictures on her to prove anything, she felt she ought to, perhaps for her sake as well as his. I think she is committed to both country and family. That is enough for me. What do you think?”

Arwen understands him straightaway, and even in her understanding is strung on new lines of thought. Was he speaking of her - or indeed of himself? They had made a conscious decision to break certain cycles in their lives, however difficult. And if their union had proven anything, it was that love did not need to be won, but that certain kinds of love, the kind they had chosen and struggled through and fought for, were made all the stronger for it.

“I think she is noble for working towards her future and not taking it as a given,” she says, satisfied less that they are on the same page and more by the fact that they understand each other so clearly, that even now, even after so many long years, they are still learning from one another.. “And I think it’s good that she need only walk into this role, not dance into it.”

He takes her hands and kisses it, looking fondly upon her and then upon the swell of her belly beneath the velvet of her dress. “And how fare you?”

“Myself better than this littlest one, who is ready to dance right now,” she says, running her thumb over the knuckles of his hand. They have become smoother, she realises all at once. She sees him everyday so that it has never occurred to her to consider it - but now, with the strange clarity of night, she does. Years without war, she realises. Without another battle. Another fight. Fading scars on skin. It hasn’t been that long - and yet, at the same time it has. She is glad for him - and yet that part of her that she will not acknowledge until the time has come gives a sad, silent sigh within her.

“What are you thinking?”

She looks at him, and knows that he doesn’t actually need an answer to the question. The theme of the night is something that has resonated within the two of them for decades now. So she smiles, and thinks of something else. Another coming-of-age, long ago. A hundred years into her life. At night, in Imladris, under stars. She has been trying not to think too much about Elladan or Elrohir or her father or mother on this night, knowing the paths such thoughts will lead her mind down. Knowing, in a way, that she will be forced to travel them anyway one day - _sooner rather than later -_ and that the sundering will be beyond what she had ever dreamt of.

She shuts those doors firmly behind party lights and wine casks. She thinks of stories rather than truths, that live as much in the present as the past and not the latter alone.

“I was reminded of the many strange tales, with varying degrees of truth, that my brothers used to tell of their coming-of-age,” she says. “And naturally, the success with which they convinced me to reenact some of the more disruptive highlights.”

Mischief lights in Aragorn’s eyes and she knows what he will say before he says it. “That was the source of the incident at the Fountain of Ulmo, was it not?”

She tips his circlet just-so such that his hair falls into his eyes. “We do not talk about the Fountain of Ulmo.”

“Then perhaps we had better take ourselves back to the musicians instead,” he says, righting his circlet with a twinkle in his eye. And it seems he is right, perfectly timed as is his way, for the music has changed to a noble courtly tune that Arwen recognises as belonging to an Arnorian dance. The brief rest has been enough, she thinks. There is never enough time for dancing, so she endeavours to do it while she can. 

She takes his hand as she has done so many times before, in so many different times, when it had been young and unmarked, when it had been bruised and scarred, and now as it bore the story of years and deeds upon it yet has been allowed at last to rest. She is thankful for peace and small mercies. 

The stars are still bright and the sky is still clear in the Court of the Fountain. Eldarion and Amathel have not deigned to leave the dancing, and have come together now as a pair. He catches his mother’s eye and gives a wide, unabashed, joyful smile. Arwen returns it wholeheartedly as Aragorn bows before her, and she curtsies, and then places her palm against his and begins the dance. They tread rhythmically in a circle, draw apart and come together, weaving around one another, matching each other step for step. They do not need music to do this dance, really. It is who they are to each other - now, and then, and for always. 

**Author's Note:**

> There ended up being less Aragorn/Arwen than I'd hoped for, but I couldn't resist bringing Eowyn and Elanor into the picture too. I hope you enjoyed it anyway @calenlily!


End file.
